


The Book Club

by StealthKaiju



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Blowjobs, First Kiss, M/M, Nerd Jim, Porn with Feelings, What colour is a rillian teaberry melon anyway?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 11:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: Kirk was panicking. How do you cope when you’ve accidentally lent your First Officer porn? What’s the protocol?





	The Book Club

Three years into the mission and Kirk knew he was fucked.

 

Despite all the hardships of a life with Frank and the hell that was Tarsus IV, he seemed to have the self-preservation instincts of a tribble.

 

He did not consider the physical risks he took to be detrimental – exploring space was dangerous, as was first contact; even supposedly peaceful federation diplomatic summits sometimes ended in good old-fashioned fisticuffs (Bones’ words, not his). It was a worthy risk.

 

But falling in love with his first officer? His half-Vulcan first officer, whom he had worked so hard to be friends with?

 

And it was love. Not just physical interest, not an infatuation. He _knew_ Spock, had unconsciously studied him over chess games and after-shift conversations, had learnt him as one would learn a language, its grammatical foundations, its idiosyncrasies, its history and its symbolic intent.

 

He loved him.

 

And it hurt.

 

*

 

They had met in his quarters for a quick debrief, Spock just coming off a bridge shift and Kirk about to start. Nothing of note to report, on present speed and course they should be in orbit of Starbase Lenore in thirty-two point seven three hours.

 

‘Quoth the Raven “Nevermore”’ Kirk said.

 

Spock’s eyebrow quirked, this one meaning _you are being illogical but I shall indulge you_. Kirk got that expression from him a lot. ‘Captain, I do not understand that statement.’

 

Kirk bit his lip, looking contrite. ‘My apologies Spock, I was quoting a poem. The name Lenore reminded me of it.’

 

‘Indeed’ Spock replied. It was not a necessary response, but humans seemed to be unnerved by someone just silently waiting for them to continue.

 

‘Yes, Edgar Allan Poe. I think I have a book of his works, if you ever want to borrow it.’ He gestured vaguely to the shelves that were behind him, full of paperbacks. ‘Feel free to take anything you want to read.’

 

‘Thank you. Yet, how will I know if something is something I would want to read until I have read it?’

 

Kirk laughed. ‘You don’t, I suppose. Still, you can’t just keep reading ship reports and science journals all the time, can you?’

 

Spock looked as if he were about to argue, his lips pursed together.

 

‘I know you could Spock, I am just saying perhaps you shouldn’t’ Kirk amended quickly. ‘Anyway, I had better get going. Tell you what, you take your time and choose something, I’ll get to the bridge. See you later? Chess tonight?’

 

Spock shook his head softly. ‘Unfortunately I have laboratory experiments that need to be completed. Would twenty hundred hours tomorrow be agreeable?’

 

Kirk grinned. ‘Chess is always agreeable Spock. I shall see you then.’

 

Kirk walked out, therefore was not there to see Spock study the shelves. He had no idea where to start, what the titles meant. He was a scientist – he liked a clear, methodical approach. To pick a book at random, based on something as arbitrary as a title or a cover was anathema.

 

He decided to start at the end and then maybe work his way through. It was while he was standing at the side, facing the sleeping alcove, he spotted the red books beside the bed. Assuming they were ones the captain read most frequently, as suggested by their being by the bed and not all the way on the shelves, he could conclude that they were the most well-liked. He would start with one of those, as any insight into the captain was always welcome.

 

*

 

Kirk walked to the bookshelf, curious as to what Spock would have taken, contemplating what he would think of it. He would most likely appreciate Dickens’ attention to detail, but not the sentimentalism. Kirk’s eyes flicked over his battered copy of Pride and Prejudice – if anyone could comprehend the obfuscating logic of a Vulcan’s speech, it would be an Austen heroine. He reached out his hand, gently tracing the cracked spines of Peter Pan and A Little Princess, two stories about using imagination as escape. Too important to just lend to anyone, but Spock would understand. Spock always understood the important things.

                                                                                                                                       

He cleared his throat, shook the thought from his head. The Complete Sherlock Holmes – hah! There is no way Spock would accept the deus ex machina solution to each case, would hate that all the investigation and method was alluded to yet never shown.  Pratchett was also out. The writing was anecdotal, deliberately tangential, and with a sense of humour like razor blades hidden in toffee.

 

There didn’t seem to be any gaps on the overflowing shelves. Curiouser and curioser. Had he not taken anything?

 

Kirk’s eyes drifted to the bedside cabinet, to the small pile of red velvet gold-edged ‘bedtime reading’. It looked smaller than earlier.

 

Fuck. No. Please, if there is a god, somewhere in the vastness of the still barely chartered universe, please god no.

 

He ran to the bed, throwing back the covers, in the hope he had just dropped one there. He checked under his pillow, under the bed, scrabbling in the cabinet and around the sleeping alcove with the desperation of someone looking for their passport while their taxi waited outside. He went back to the pile, cataloguing the titles. Perhaps Spock got Lady Chatterley or Fanny Hill, and would be put off by the flowery language before he got to any of the smut.

 

No, they were still there.

 

What wasn’t there was one slim volume: Kake.

 

Fuck.

 

*

 

Spock had picked the title at random. He had not flicked through it when choosing, because that was an illogical human habit; what did humans expect apart from black text on a white page that offered very little prescient information when taken out of context?

 

(He did like the feel of the brushed red velvet on the pads of his fingers though, not that he would admit that.)

 

After his laboratory work had concluded, he went back to his quarters. He meditated for fifty-nine point three minutes, then worked on reports at his computer terminal for another seventy-seven point eight nine before completing his nightly ablutions. He did contemplate further meditation, but then thought he might read a few words instead. A change is as good as a rest, as Doctor McCoy would say; a highly illogical being prone to emotional outbursts but even he was right sometimes.

 

He had warmed towards McCoy, sharing a friendship that seemed to be mostly based on mutual mockery. He would not have endeavoured to make any overtures towards the man, except he was a close friend of the captain. He had and continued to make the effort to please the captain.

 

He refused to look further into why that was. Self-introspection was neither warranted nor productive twenty-eight point four minutes before he wished to sleep.

 

He picked up Kake and opened it, almost dropping it instantly. There were no words on the page. Instead there was a black and white cartoon drawing of a dark-haired man in leather, fellating a naked blonde man on a couch. Judging by their faces (though they looked fairly similar in composition, yet Spock doubted this was a concern or focus of the artist), both seemed to be enjoying the encounter. They were also sporting overly large erections – if the average Terran male anatomy was actually such a size, any male with an erection would fall over due to either a loss of blood flow to the brain or an imbalance due to the weight.

 

He began flicking through the pages. There was no discernible plot, just pornographic images in the same style. All of men, hyper masculine and ridiculously over-endowed, engaging in various forms of coitus. He put the book on his own bedside cabinet.

 

Spock was perplexed. Why did the captain own such material? What was it doing beside his bed, easily accessible and… _oh._

 

He felt himself blush, something he would never allow if he was not alone and already fatigued. He allowed a further loss of control in imagining the captain …Jim… holding the book in his hands, glancing over the pages. The book was light enough to hold in one hand, leaving his other to trace down his abdomen, slipping his hand under the waistband of his cotton pyjamas…

 

(Spock’s own hands were now curled into fists by his sides, a heat pooling in his belly, working its way down to his groin.)

 

Jim would by now have his hand around his erection, moving his hand slowly up and down it. The book would be left aside, his eyes shut and his mouth closed, set in a lazy, contented smile. His breathing would steadily become heavier, more erratic, as he bucks his hips slightly to create more friction between his fingers. He bends his knees up and moves his weight onto the balls of his feet, making room for his other hand to trail between his legs, over his perineum and testes, rolling them gently between his fingers. The hand on his erection would be faster, surer. His mouth would open, soft gasps and low moans…

 

Spock seized his cock, the heat and pressure unbearably wonderful. A few strokes until he orgasmed, the release of endorphins in his system creating a relaxed, euphoric state.

 

He let himself enjoy the afterglow, without even counting the seconds he waited for the feeling to return to his legs, and then proceeded to strip out of his damp trousers. He did feel slight guilt over putting a recently laundered pair back into the chute, but not as much guilt as he felt at his masturbatory fantasy of his captain, his friend.

 

His friend, whom he admired and respected and cherished, and whom he had always assumed was completely heterosexual.

 

_Fascinating._

 

*

 

Kirk was panicking. How do you cope when you’ve accidentally lent your First Officer porn? What’s the protocol?

 

It was already 2200 and Spock had an early shift. Did he just risk knocking on the door and asking for it back, hoping he hadn’t read it? What excuse did he give? _Evening Spock, sorry to bother you, but can I please have my book back? I didn’t mean to lend you hardcore gay porn._

 

He paced the room. Could he override the privacy controls (yes, he could hack Starfleet security in his sleep) and just take it when Spock was out on shift tomorrow? Then how would he explain its disappearance?

 

He could always just open an airlock now and walk out. Preferable to this anxiety boiling him from the inside.

 

Bones. He would go to Bones. He would still be up (thank god for fellow insomniacs) and he would have Romulan ale.

 

*

 

Bones had laughed at him for a full two minutes. He had barely paused to breathe.

 

‘He found your porn? Ha! Damnit… I’m a _doctor_ , and that stack made me blush.’ He poured another measure of ale into Kirk’s glass. ‘Hilarious.’

 

Kirk glowered, which was hard to do through alcohol-pink cheeks. ‘It’s not just the embarrassment issue. He’ll know I’m…’ he wiggled his hand ‘...and I don’t know…’

 

Bones scowled. ‘Spock irritates the hell out of me, but I don’t think he’ll care if you’re chasing skirt or trousers. He’s better than that, and you’ll do him a disservice if you think otherwise.’

 

Kirk sighed. ‘I know. It’s just… complicated.’

 

Bones took a long draught. ‘How long have you been in love with him?’

 

Kirk thought about lying. Wouldn’t work, not with Bones. ‘No idea.’

 

Bones winced. ‘That bad? You poor fool.’

 

They clinked glasses together, and kept drinking in companionable quiet.

 

*

 

At 1959 Kirk was contemplating hiding. Or faking a Klingon bird-of-prey sighting. Something sensible.

 

Thirty seconds later there was a chime at the door of their shared en suite bathroom, and he pressed a button to allow Spock entry. He smiled (act normal Kirk, that might help), but he nearly choked on his breath.

 

Spock wasn’t wearing his science blues. Or his Starfleet uniform. He was wearing black from head to toe, swathed in a soft Vulcan robe that while covered him did nothing to hide the lithe physique. Spock stopped walking towards him, hesitating.

 

‘Do you mind that I am dressed in less formal attire than usual Captain?’

‘Jim, please’.

‘Do you mind, Jim?’

Kirk shook himself. ‘No, no, no, come in. I’ve just, uh, never seen you out of uniform before.’

‘To be more accurate, you have never seen me while out of anything before.’

Kirk swallowed. ‘A fair statement, Mister Spock.’ Had his voice always been so high? ‘Please, sit.’

 

Spock sat gracefully on the chair beside his and began to set the chessboard, his long elegant fingers delicately picking up the pieces. ‘Jim, I had a question.’

‘Yes?’

‘About the book I borrowed…’

_Come on you Klingon bastards_ , thought Kirk.

‘It is a personal question, so I apologise if I cause offence by asking it, and you are, of course, under no obligation to answer it…,

‘Spock, ask the damn question.’

‘…When you peruse it, do you mentally place yourself in the position of the top or the bottom?’

 

_FUCK._

 

‘I am guessing by your silence I have caused offence. Please, I did…’

‘No, um, I’m not angry, just… sheesh, Spock, give a guy warning when you start asking about sexual preferences.’

‘While I did much research on human culture and behaviour prior to joining Starfleet and since, I could not find any useful information as to ask whether someone has a sexual interest in you. Your databanks and literature are full of conflicting ideas.’

‘Did you want to ask me?’ Kirk pulled his arms around himself. ‘Did you want to ask if I was sexually interested in you?’

Spock looked flummoxed, an extraordinary lapse in his controls, and a sign of how relaxed he was in Kirk’s company. ‘I admit that was my original intention to ask you that question. What I just asked…’ he stared over Kirk’s shoulder. ‘I cannot fathom why I asked that instead.’

 

Kirk laughed. It bubbled through him, joyous and uncontained like fizz in champagne. He leaned slowly towards Spock, giving him ample time to move away (he did not). Slowly he placed a hand over one of Spock’s, gently squeezing it (such gorgeous hands), and pressed his lips to Spock’s.

 

It was sweet, and chaste, and beautiful.

 

Kirk pulled back slightly. He didn’t know whether he wanted to push his lips to Spock’s again, jump in his lap, or go running out the room and round the ship jumping for joy. Yet, Kirk being Kirk, his brain went to weird places.

‘If you want to know, if he loves you so, it’s in his kiss’.

‘You are quoting Betty Everett at me.’

Jim looked up in surprise ( _sweet Surak his eyes are so blue_ , thought Spock). ‘You know Betty Everett?’

‘You sing that song a great deal Jim’.

‘Oh’. He would have said more but Spock kissed him. With more force. More passion. The hand that Jim was not holding onto had gone to the back of his neck, gently tugging at the strands. A coarse, rough tongue licked across his lips, and he parted them allowing it in.

 

God, it was wonderful. He moaned softly.

 

Spock could not keep in control at that sound. He stood up, pulling Jim with him, pushing him gently until he leaned back on the desk. He moved his mouth away from Jim’s, his lips moving towards his neck, slowly licking and gently biting his way down to his collarbone, Jim gasping beneath him. He smelt of soap, and salt, and something that was just Jim, his scent simultaneously dulling Spock’s awareness of his surroundings but heightening his sense of Jim.

 

He palmed Jim’s erection through his trousers, running his nails lightly over the length. Jim’s hips bucked, and his eyes went wide. ‘Please,’ he begged, his voice breathless. ‘Spock’.

 

Spock knew he could not comprehend the limitless capacity for human expression. Jim’s simple uttering of his name, that one syllable, was a plea, a command, a statement of fact, and a benediction. He dropped to his knees, and carefully unzipped Kirk’s fly, pulling down his trousers and briefs. Kirk’s cock stood stiff, long and thick and flushed pink like a rillian teaberry melon. He slowly moved his tongue from the base to the tip, soaking it in long lapping strokes. He could feel the strong thighs underneath him tremble slightly. He took a breath, then swallowed the length down.

 

Kirk nearly screamed. Spock’s mouth was hot and tight, and dear god was that his tongue still moving round, how the fuck was he… He gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white. Spock’s hands began smoothing over his thighs, lightly touching his balls, moving round to grip the back of his ass.

 

Spock did something with his throat and tongue, and the pressure increased. Kirk called out, though he barely recognised his own voice, it sounded wrecked. He took a hand off the desk and run it softly though Spock’s hair, trying to ease his head up to look at him, to warn him he was close.

 

Spock did look up, but only to raise eyebrow quickly. Then something crossed his face. Smugness maybe? He began to hum, and just increased the pressure of his sucking.

 

Kirk called out, knowing he was close. Sparks of electricity were shooting through his lower body, and white dots danced on the edge of his vision.

 

‘Spock, I’m about to… you might want to stop… I’m…’

 

Spock did not stop, only increased his humming, swallowing harder and moving his head faster. His hands, with those long elegant fingers, were gently pulling his cheeks apart, lightly rubbing over his perineum and his…

 

Kirk came violently, and for a long time. His legs felt like jelly, and he was grateful he was on the desk because he didn’t think he could stand. Maybe ever again. He could still captain his ship from a bed right?

 

Spock had by this point stood up, and pressed a chaste, affectionate kiss on his forehead. ‘Come, ashalik’ Spock whispered, his breath ghosting over Kirk’s neck. ‘To borrow another’s words, “Licence my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below”.

 

Taking Kirk’s hand – his captain, his friend, his Jim – he led him to the bed.

 

*

 

‘You didn’t have to get me a present, Spock.’

‘I did not feel compelled, I merely saw it and thought you may like it. It is fortuitous it is your birthday so I have an excuse.’

 

Kirk opened the brightly coloured package to reveal a small black book, a suede imitation cover and a single word typed in silver font: Sardax.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do look up the works of Kake and Sardax if not familiar with them. But not on a public computer.


End file.
